


ordinary

by noxxic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action, Cross-Posted on Wattpad, F/M, Fanfiction, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 11:29:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9438227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noxxic/pseuds/noxxic
Summary: A wise man gets more use from his enemies than a fool from his friends. Or so the saying goes. But what happens when the lines between friend and foe, right and wrong, ordinary and exceptional become blurred? Life and death?For thirty three year old Charlotte Dunham, those lines were once clear. Until she met Sherlock Holmes. Thrust into a violent game of chess where every move could be her last, she must learn that sometimes, in order to survive, lines need to be crossed.But what if the lines were never there to begin with?





	

opia - n. the ambiguous intensity of looking someone in the eye, which can feel simultaneously invasive and vulnerable—their pupils glittering, bottomless and opaque—as if you were peering through a hole in the door of a house, able to tell that there's someone standing there, but unable to tell if you're looking in or looking out.

♛

"Miss Dunham?"

Charlotte spun around, bag clutched to her chest at the voice, eyes wide. She had dressed nicely, per her mother's advice, but now felt silly and exposed in the heels, white blouse, and pencil skirt she had bought just for the occasion. "Yes." Her voice was breathless, and her cheeks flushed slightly as she nervously tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. The cold, white walls of the hospital seemed to be closing in on her, every small noise a harsh echo, and she could feel sweat prickling in the small of her back.

The man who had called her was a kind looking fellow, and seemed surprisingly put together despite his age. His hair was a mix of salt and pepper, though it was evident it had once been brown, perhaps tawny. Intelligent brown eyes squinted down at her from behind a pair of glasses that made them look two sizes larger, and his brow seemed to be permanently furrowed, only further distinguishing the harsh lines of his lean face. He smiled kindly, and held out one steady, gnarled hand. "My name is David Hunt. It's a pleasure to have you working with us. Your flight went well I presume?"

Charlotte smiled, relief washing over her, and took his hand confidently, surprised at how smooth and warm it was. "The pleasure is all mine. And yes, it went lovely, thank you." When he drew back, she let her hands fall in front of her, clutching the straps of her purse, and Dr. Hunt straightened out his lab coat, adjusting his spectacles.

"Very good, very good. Walk with me?" He gestured down the hall, and Charlotte smiled graciously, falling into stride beside him. He walked slowly, whether because of his own age or because he could sense the woman was far from adept at walking in heels, she did not know. Whatever the reason, she was grateful. "Did you work at a hospital in the Americas, Miss Dunham?"

The brunette dipped her head in a nod, lacing her hands in front of her as she walked with the doctor. "Yes, sir. I was a student at Yale's teaching hospital, and then I was employed for seven years in the laboratories at John Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore." She flashed Dr. Hunt a smile as he gave a noise of approval, nodding his head.

"And did you ever serve as the forensic pathologist on a crime scene?" the older man asked, peering down a slightly crooked nose at her.

"Several times, Doctor. It was my favorite part of the job." She smiled - really smiled, not a fake flash of teeth - and her eyes glittered.

One corner of Dr. Hunt's mouth twitched up, and he chuckled. "Well, we will see if that doesn't change. But come along, dear. A dead woman's been found, and there's someone you ought to meet."

♛

Charlotte's first impression of the crime scene was that it was a terribly lonely place to die. She climbed out of the back of the cab Dr. Hunt had called for them, careful not to stumble in her heels. He had informed her on the way over of the case; three apparent suicides, three unlikely victims, three abandoned locations. The police had been confused once the second body had been found, so closely resembling the first, which had turned up earlier in the week, but they were utterly stumped when the third was reported. Interesting, Charlotte thought, closing the cab door. Dr. Hunt had said there was only one thing all three seemed to have in common - the victims all appeared to have died of asphyxiation. Poison then?

She was pulled from her musings when a ferrety looking man came over, a scowl on his face. "Dr. Hunt," he greeted before looking down at Charlotte, "and you must be Charlotte Dunham. Sorry to throw you headfirst into things. I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade. You can call me Greg." He looked tired, but managed to turn the expression on his face to one of kindness. Charlotte liked him almost immediately.

The woman shook her head, managing a smile. "It's no trouble. It's why I'm here, after all. And please, call me Charley. Everyone does." She shook the hand he offered, and then looked out at the crowd of officers and cruisers, flashing lights and chattering radios. Her smile widened, and she felt excitement bubble up in her chest. "Where do we begin?"

♛

"Her name is Jennifer Wilson, at least according to her credit cards. We're running them now. But she hasn't been here long. A few boys came in for a good time and found her." Lestrade glanced up at Charley as she put her bag down, hands on her hips. "We've uh, we've got a guy coming in to have a look too, but please, feel free to take your time." He nodded down towards the corpse and cleared his throat once. "Right then. I'll leave you to it."

The door closed behind him and Charley walked a circle round the body, her fingers tapping a pattern on the inside of her elbow as she took in what detail she could. The woman was middle aged, of average height and weight, and seemingly in healthy condition - save the being dead bit. No visible cause of death - there was no blood, no lacerations or wounds of any sort to indicate anything other than suicide - at least along her back, though she wagered an examination of the woman's chest would yield the same results. Kneeling down, she leaned in to smell the victim's mouth. No trace of liquor, so that could rule out alcohol poisoning. No signs of restraints on the wrists, no marks indicative of self defense on the hands. The whole thing was a bit of a puzzle, really, but Charlotte wagered that once they had gotten the body into the mortuary where she could take a better look at it there would be more reliable evidence. The old saying 'dead men tell no tales' was abhorrently false.

Standing back up, the woman slung the bag on her back around one shoulder so she could rummage around inside of it, producing a professional camera. She photographed the body several times and from alternate angles before bending to take more detailed pictures of it. When she was done with that, she took a few of the entire room, and then a few of particularly interesting and potentially helpful details. Then, she pulled a small recording device out of her bag, turning it on and speaking into the end of it. "Body position: sternal, arms bent next to head. Condition: fresh, intact. No blood. Not yet rigid, though lividity has begun to develop in the face and fingers." 

Satisfied, Charley tucked her equipment safely away and squatted down to perform a field examination of the body, but just as she reached out to palpate the woman's throat there was a bang from down the stairs - the door slamming shut. She arched one eyebrow curiously, stopping to listen as footsteps pounded up the stairs. "Please clear the room, especially if Anderson is in there. You know I refuse to work with him."

"Anderson's not here. Hunt's sent-"

There was a pause in the footsteps, and the first smooth, baritone voice interrupted Lestrade. "Anderson's not here? Has he been fired?"

"No, he hasn't been bloody fired!"

There was a faint sound of admonition, and then the footsteps started up again, the voices getting closer. "Pity. You could have hired someone useful." The door opened, ushering in a tall man clad in a well made Belstaff coat, scarf tied about the neck. His hair was a disheveled mop of black curls, and his face was long and drawn enough to look almost harrowed. A pair of pale grey green eyes peered out from beneath a serious brow with what was at first curiosity, but gradually gave way to disdain. "Oh. Who is this?" He turned, rubber gloves clutched in one fist, to look back at Lestrade, who was accompanied by a quaint little man with a cane.

"That's what I was going to tell you just a moment ago, if you would have listened." Lestrade sounded even more exhausted than when Charley had arrived. "Name's Charlotte Dunham. Hunt sent her up, said she's one of the better ones." He folded his arms and rocked back on the balls of his feet, letting out a huff. "From the states, degree in biochemistry, major in forensic pathology."

Charley stood up, wiping the palms of her hands subconsciously on her skirt. "It's Charley, please." She managed a smile for the men at the door, though the one with the cane was the only one to return it. Lestrade just looked tired, agitated almost, and the other looked unimpressed.

"Yes, right." He waved a hand dismissively, stepping around her. "Sherlock Holmes. This is my colleague, Dr. Watson. I do hope you've not contaminated the body." He popped down to a squatting position, producing a small looking glass from his pockets, and immediately bent over the dead woman, examining invisible bits of 'evidence.' Charley glanced at Lestrade, who just sighed and shrugged his shoulders.

Clearing her throat, Charley turned back to the man - Sherlock Holmes. "I haven't had long with it, but from what I can tell there's no sign of foul play. No signs of a struggle, no lacerations or bruising on the wrists. Not even a sign of distress save for the little note she left." She gestured towards the victim's hand, where the letters 'RACHE' had been scratched into the floorboard, presumably the cause of the broken fingernails on the left hand. She folded her arms across her chest. "Of course, I'll be able to tell more after an autopsy."

Sherlock sighed, standing up and depositing the looking glass back into his pocket. "Wonderful, yes, I'm sure it didn't take long for you to figure that out. A monkey with half a brain could have. Are you proud of yourself?"

Dr. Watson looked appalled, and Lestrade snapped an angry "Sherlock!", but Charley just squared her shoulders and picked up her purse from its spot on the floor, turning to Lestrade. "If you could have the body brought to the morgue when you're done here, Detective Inspector." She glanced over her shoulder once, taking a small bit of pleasure in the fact that Sherlock Holmes seemed annoyed with the lack of reaction to his earlier insult. "I'll have a look at it in the morning." She swung the bag over her shoulder, seeing herself to the door. "Dr. Watson, a pleasure. Mr. Holmes," his queer, almost colorless eyes flickered up to meet hers and Charley at once froze, almost disturbed, as if he looked into her instead of at her. She found it nearly impossible to break the trance of his gaze, and blinked hard, trying to dispel the uneasy feeling that had settled in the bottom of her stomach. "Please don't contaminate the body."

Dr. Hunt was waiting for her when she got outside, a clipboard of paperwork in one hand. "Everything's all set. The body will be sent to St. Bart's once the initial investigation is done, and we will have Ms. Wilson's medical records come the morrow." He smiled warmly, tucking the stack under his arm. "I presume you've met Mr. Holmes?"

Charley looked over at the old man, nose wrinkling slightly. "Yes. Is he always so... frank?"

Dr. Hunt laughed, a harsh, wheezing noise. "I am afraid so, yes."

Charley sighed, hunching her shoulders up to her ears as a chilly wind ripped through the street. "Fantastic."

♛

The door creaked shut behind Charley as she closed it, and she leaned her back against the cold wood, her exhaustion catching up to her. The apartment she had rented for herself was dark and unwelcoming, and she shivered slightly against the chill.

It wasn't home now, but in time... it could be.

She flicked on the lights in the kitchen, taking a deep breath as she set her bag down on the counter. She pulled her phone out of her jacket pocket then, clicking the screen on to see three missed messages from her mother, asking Charley to call when she was in and settled.

The woman spared a glance at the clock, lips pursed as she tapped the phone against her hand. It would only be about seven o'clock back home. If she called now, she could let her parents know she was doing well and safe, and hopefully they wouldn't talk her ear off all night.

Her mother answered the phone after the third ring.

"Charley! Hi sweetheart, how are you? Goodness, it's late, have you just gotten in? How was the flight?" Her mother's bright, cheery voice brought a smile to her tired face, and she hopped up on the counter, leaning her head against one of the cabinets.

"Hi Mama," she said, closing her eyes. "I'm doing good! Exhausted, but good. The flight went really well, and Dr. Hunt had me working as soon as I went to the hospital." She gave a small chuckle, glancing at the clock. "I got in round seven, and then by the time we got all of my stuff in and settled at the apartment and I got over there it was like nine. Dr. Hunt was in late because he wanted me to come out to a crime scene with him. They're suspecting a murder." She tried to keep the excitement from her voice, though really it had been a good first day.

She heard her mother pull away from the phone, muffling the speaker with one hand. "Michael! They've got her working already - she just got in! A murder!" Her voice became clear once again, and Charley could hear her smile. "Oh, I am so glad you had a good day, sweetheart. You should get some sleep soon, though!"

"I will Mom, I will. Don't worry." She chuckled slightly. "Is Dad there?"

"Oh, yes! Michael, say hello!"

Her father's voice sounded far away - she could picture him now, in his flannel pajama pants and slippers in the kitchen, making an evening cup of coffee. "Hi doodlebug! We love and miss you already! And so does Bowser!" In agreement, the family's big Newfoundland gave a single loud boof, and Charley's heart warmed.

"I love you guys too! I'm going to go and take a shower, but I'll call you tomorrow."

Both her parents called out a farewell and she hung up the phone, a smile on her lips as she went into the bedroom and plugged it in before hopping in the shower, struggling to keep her eyes open.

She collapsed in bed fifteen minutes later with a groan, pulling the sheets up to her chin. She was beyond exhausted, but sleep eluded her. Even in the darkness of her own mind, all she was able to see were the pale, knowing eyes of Sherlock Holmes. She shuddered.


End file.
